God is the fizz/pop of a failing light bulb.
God is a smug shoe salesman in a designer store.
God is a red warning sign on a sharp bend.
God is one segment of a Cadbury’s chocolate orange
and an ice cube in a shaken not stirred.
God is an invisible splinter in the sole of your foot.
God is a lost pair of scissors in the back of a drawer
or a set of cookie cutters in fancy shapes.
God is the slice of lemon in your hot toddy.
God is the knot in your umbilical cord,
the stinking pus of a wound that never heals
and the stained teeth you forgot to clean.
God is a dandelion clock on a windy day.
God is butter melting on toasted crumpet.
God is a daub of yellow paint on blank canvas.
God is a broken windscreen in the fast lane
or a hit and run on a dark street.
God is a sandwich cut into tiny squares.
God is the dogs of Chernobyl looking for a home.
God is the gardener who prunes hard every winter.
God is a white feather on your path.
I follow mother’s crooked
path beyond the giant privet hedge
where once I found blackbird eggs. Perfect
spheres of eau de nil slipped through careless
fingers and smashed on paving stones set by father
years before. On the hill, the shed cowers beneath the apple tree
where once I found God. Perched up top, he was singing
Bowie songs and watching the neighbours through binoculars.
Ashes to ashes; Jennifer Jones kissed the coal man.
Dust to dust; Marjorie Moony hoovered nude.
I never done good and I never done bad.
I wanna come down right now and try
mother’s apple pie
The Gleaning is an example of a concrete poem where the shape of the page echoes the theme. This one is supposed to represent an apple tree.